Page 33 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
She keeps the stone, turning it over in her palm as we talk and watch Braylon practice his fledgling magic. And when she thinks I'm not looking, I catch her holding it up to the light with that same expression of quiet reverence I remember from before. Like she's rediscovering a part of herself she didn't know was missing.
The next week brings a dozen similar moments—small gestures that chip away at the walls between us without ever demanding more than she's ready to give. I bring her meadowmint tea when the afternoon grows cold, remembering how she used to claim it helped her think more clearly. I share observations about Braylon's development that make her laugh in spite of herself. I keep my voice low and my movements careful, letting her set the pace of every interaction while I memorize each incremental shift toward something that resembles trust.
And gradually, I begin to see glimpses of the woman I fell in love with. In the way she argues with me about Braylon's education, forgetting to be diplomatic when passion overtakes caution. In the unconscious grace of her movements when shethinks no one is watching. In the warmth that creeps into her voice when she's genuinely amused rather than just being polite.
But it's the quiet moments that undo me completely. When she settles close enough that I can catch the scent of her hair, still the same mixture of sunlight and something indefinably sweet that used to drive me to distraction. When she laughs at something Braylon does and the sound is so familiar it makes my chest ache with recognition. When she watches me lift our son onto my shoulders and her expression softens into something that might be approval, or admiration, or the faint beginning of something deeper.
Those moments, I hoard them. Because they're proof that whatever else has been stripped away, the fundamental connection between us remains. Bruised and buried and tangled with complications, but still there. Still real.
Still worth fighting for, no matter how long the battle takes.
18
KALEEN
Ifeel split down the middle these days, like I'm two different women trying to inhabit the same skin. There's the Kaleen who learned to survive in Veylowe—careful, grateful, making do with what little she could remember. And then there's this other woman, the one who stirs restlessly beneath my ribs whenever Domiel looks at me with those silver-blue eyes that seem to see straight through to my bones.
Lake notices the change, I think. He's been spending more nights at his parents' house lately, claiming his father needs help or that his mother asked him to fix something. Excuses that we both know aren't quite lies but aren't quite truth either.
"I should head back," he says tonight, already reaching for his coat before we've even finished our quiet dinner. His mossy green eyes don't quite meet mine. "Early morning tomorrow."
I don't ask him to stay. The words that used to come easily—you don't have to go, it's still early—stick in my throat like stones. Because the truth is, I'm relieved when he leaves. Relieved not to feel his careful concern pressing against my shoulders like a weight I can't carry anymore. I don't even remember the last time he slept next to me.
"Give your parents my regards," I tell him instead, and he nods without looking back.
After he's gone, I sit in my small kitchen and wonder when everything shifted. When Lake's steady presence began to feel like an ill-fitting coat instead of the warm comfort it used to be. When I started counting the hours until I could see Domiel again without feeling guilty about it.
The next evening, I find myself walking toward their usual spot before I've consciously decided to go. Braylon spots me first and comes running with his arms outstretched, chattering about the new magic trick Domiel taught him today. Something about making light dance between his fingers like captured thalivern.
"Show her," Domiel says, and there's pride in his voice that makes my chest warm. He settles onto the grass beside me as Braylon concentrates, his small face scrunched with effort until tiny points of silver light begin to flicker around his hands.
"That's incredible," I breathe, and Braylon beams with the particular joy that only comes from impressing the people you love most.
Domiel watches our son with such careful attention, such genuine delight, that I find myself studying the sharp line of his profile. The way his dark gold hair catches the evening light. The unconscious grace in how he moves, even sitting still.
"He's getting stronger," Domiel murmurs, and when he turns to look at me, something passes between us. Something warm and electric that makes me forget to breathe properly.
We stay until the sun begins to set, talking about everything and nothing. Domiel tells me stories about ethereal architecture that make me lean forward despite myself, fascinated by concepts I shouldn't understand but somehow do. He makes me laugh—really laugh, the kind that starts deep in my belly and bubbles up until my whole body shakes with it.
I can't remember the last time Lake made me laugh like that. The thought arrives unbidden and makes guilt twist in my stomach.
When Braylon's eyelids start to droop, Domiel glances at the darkening sky. "Let me walk you home."
It's not a question, exactly, but his voice is careful. Respectful of whatever boundaries I might need to maintain. I should probably say no. Should probably gather Braylon myself and make polite excuses about being perfectly capable of walking the short distance to my cottage alone.
Instead, I hear myself saying, "I'd like that."
Domiel scoops up our sleepy son with practiced ease, settling him against his broad chest. Braylon's small fingers curl into his father's shirt, and something about the picture they make together—dark gold head bent protectively over brown curls—makes my throat tight with emotion I can't name.
We walk slowly, in no hurry to break the spell of evening quiet between us. The village is settling into night around us, windows glowing with warm lamplight and the scent of dinnertime fires drifting on the cool air. Domiel's wing occasionally brushes my shoulder as we navigate the narrow path, and each accidental touch sends little shivers racing down my spine.
At my door, I expect him to hand off Braylon and leave. Instead, he waits while I push the door open, then follows me inside without invitation. Like he belongs here. Like this small, simple cottage could somehow contain someone as extraordinary as him.
I watch him carry our son to the small bedroom, moving with quiet confidence through my space. He lays Braylon down with infinite gentleness, smoothing the covers and murmuring something too soft for me to catch. When he turns back to me, his expression is tender in a way that makes my pulse stumble.
We walk back toward the front door together, but he stops just inside the threshold. The space between us feels charged suddenly, heavy with unspoken words.
"Kaleen," he says softly, and my name on his lips sounds like a prayer. "Do you have any of your old memories? Anything at all?"
